Hot day in September...

Wind not moving the air much. Out of cigarettes. Tired of telling people that I'm gonna quit, or telling people that I have quit only to start again.

I like to smoke cigarettes. I do not like the way that I smoke them: fiendishly and repeatedly. My respiratory system is not happy with my habit. I'm not anal retentive about the house keeping, so there are butts everywhere; on the window seals, overloaded ashtrays, the porch, the office, the living room, the cluttered dining room table. The only real pleasure that I get from them is the sating of the addiction to nicotine.

It doesn't make good sense to smoke like I do. The addiction hurts more than my lungs. My will withers in the presence of the nicotine fit. Rationale becomes the most creative of all my faculties, at the expense of my vital energy and peace of mind. Smoking, the urge to light another one, and the idea of quitting, dominate my head space. All day. Starting with the opening of my eyes.

I'll light up to postpone, or forget about, making breakfast . I'll smoke instead of drink water when I'm thirsty. I allow the urge to jerk me around on a leash like a dog, out of a shared moment into a solo puff and blow.

It's hot and I'm sweating. The tin roof radiates heat to the top of my head. Dog is panting on the porch. Air is so still that I notice the banana leaves when they occasion to move.

The suckers do little to curb the oral fixation.

I have to go mail a letter for Carson and cash a $13 check from AFTRA. There are cigarettes down there. I am thinking about them.

If I buy a pack of 20 filters now, they'll be done before the day is. American Spirit rollies cost about the same, but I'll have enough tobacco to keep me puffing strong for a week.

I hate bumming. The idea is: If I don't buy, I'll smoke less. The reality is: My whole day will be arranged to put me in contact with smokers. I spend more time in bars in coffee shops, stoking the addiction to alcohol and caffeine.

The funny thing is: I don't have to do anything to kill the habit and bolster my life condition. I just have to stop doing something.

ATTENTION: New Blog- www.undeadpoetry.blogspot.com

Hello peoples...

Need a jumpstart. Where to start...

Raining in the jungle. Plants are happy. Cigarettes won't stay lit. Bong is clean. Nothing to put in it.

Except Salvia. I haven't done much documentation on the salvia divinorum trips. Might start. No time like the present...

...or later.

About five hours have passed between those dot dot dots. I saved this post as a draft, checked my e-mail, then succumbed to the habit of chat. Cyber crack. I'm an addict. I have an addictive personality. Obsessive compulsive too I suppose, but hey, I'm no doctor.

I'm fortunate enough to have never picked up a real crack habit, or heroin, or alcohol, or something expensive like that. I've done methamphetimines and saw a gaping hole into that addiction. Didn't fall in though. Not enough accessibility to the substance.

Been addicted to television in a heavy way. Same pattern with TV as with cigarettes, sex, and my other compulsions. If I have regular access I will do it at the expense of sleep, food, solitude, and my art. My health will easily take back seat to the quick and easy fix.

So anyways, after the dot dot dot I cruised the chat rooms looking for web cams to peek in on. Not the pay cams, or "free"sites, but those grainy staccato images of people with the screen glow on their faces and the cluttered abodes that frame them. I live in Hawai'i, one of the most culturally diverse places on the planet, where I can have a nice conversation with the Korean bartender at the Italian restaurant down the street, then walk to the park and watch Chinese practice the Brazilian martial art of capoera, then go to the kava bar and drink with the Polynesians. And I find myself searching the web for interesting people. The technology of the internet, like the TV, fascinates me. The potential inspires me. But the use of the stuff leaves me flat, with bloodshot eyes, feeling like I lost something. Time. Time well spent.

On a tangent: When I grew my first marijuana plants, I would sit with them for hours at a time, preening them, literally watching them grow. Some assert that by spending the time and energy on them that I did, I was helping them grow, influencing the quality and potency of their development. I want to draw a parallel between this and the net: is the same true? on a larger scale? A drop in the ocean does add to the body, but the gratification that comes from contributing gets lost in the vastness of the thing.

So, now, it's cigarettes at the fore, going hand in hand with the chat rooms. I've been doing this chat thing for two weeks or so. Debating mindnumbed Christians, avoiding marriage proposals from Philipinas, giving my agesexlocation to horny Pakistani boys who don't know that the title King is a male title. I'm developing anti-rhetoric rhetoric. The communication is little and far between a lot of words.

Weed Pulling Meditation Manual:
LESSON #1 -

When pulling the weeds it is suggested that it be a conscious action with each weed.  It is advised to introduce your self to the weeds as their Reaper.   Then indicate that there is nothing to fear, that it's nothing personal, that you are transforming them into compost, an exalted state where form becomes formless.  Inform the plants that nothing is lost in compost, but that the few chosen for the heap will become one unit of great growth potential, that by joining together as one, through their Reaper and Redeemer(you), they will then leap to a new level of life, as a tree, or an arica palm, or one of the other fine plants or trees we grow here at Monkey Works.  You don't have to believe it, but the weeds eat it up;  It has been noticed that they release their roots with much less resistance. 
 

Compiling a manual for the coming Weed Pulling Meditation Center.  If I can translate the name into Japanese, I'm sure it would sound a little more poetic.  Ooo, or Hawai'ian, even better.   Yes. 

 

 For a modest suggested donation*, you can come stay in the beautiful exotic land of Hawai'i as more than just a tourist.  Spend a week in deep immersion in the local culture.  Experience Hawai'i out side the airconditioned tour busses. We provide the opportunity to put your feet in the dirt, reconnect with the earth, and see real, live, Hawai'ians**. 

 

As a guest, and donor*, you will be provided with nature friendly*** accommodations on our Big Island Meditation Center campus. 

 

An add in the back of Sunset magazine.  Yes, with the troubled teen angle:  Send your angry youth to our exclusive confidence building ashram. 

 

After two weeks of sleeping in our nature friendly accommodations**** , experiencing a life without TV or pop culture, and rigorous weed pulling meditations in the tropical heat, they are likely to be far more appreciative of the life of convenience you work so hard to provide for them.

 

 

Oh yeah.  A reality show where the contestants compete for largest gross weight in weeds pulled for the week to return for another week to defend their title.  The Laotians would reign.  Maybe we could get the Laotian government to sponsor the show as an awareness vehicle to promote Laotian tourism.  Ooo... 
 
King of the World Endorsed. 

 

a memo from The King...
 
Hey there folks.  The King here.  Some of you have commented that We haven't made any official speeches or proclamations since We've been King.  We're here to clarify this misconception, and update you on Official Projects of the Office of the King.

A few months ago We did dole out the Meaning of Life in a public space (Studio 1, China Town, Honolulu).  There We told the few people gathered that I was the King of the World (It was short notice and had only word of mouth publicity).   We've been pretty quiet in my Office since, though We have been working on stuff . 

We've been looking at the state of the world.  A lot of things going on.  Some of you might be surprised to hear that there is other stuff going on besides the American Political Circus.  Well there is.  Lot of grass roots stuff going on under the jaded eyes of the Media Houses.  If you turn off the TV's and radios you can hear the buzz of hisses and whispers that are speaking volumes more than the chatter boxes.  

Since I became King We've noticed a measurable leap in the pitch of the posers of this planet.  They, like most people, don't know who the King is yet, but they sense something is up.  On some level the Leader posers know their relevance is waning.  Poor bastards.  It's going to be tough for them, these next few years.  Please remember them in your prayers and medications. 

This is not going to be a State of the World address however.  We are putting that off until We have spent a little more time chatting with the peoples.  We come here today to talk about the first World Holiday We wish to declare (to be announced at un undetermined time in the near future).  

We don't have a name for it yet.  The idea is that we have a World Block Party.  One day a year where all the non crucial worker types take time off work to let loose in solidarity with everyone else.  Big Bash.  Everyone is invited.    The complete concept for this event will surely be controversial.  We're proposing a free for all.  No laws, no curfews, no work, no buying anything, no guilt for doing whatever we want as individuals.  Of course, We know this will be a little messy at first.  That's why the day after will be set aside for cleanup rites for the fist several years until this thing finds its groove.  There is a lot of room here to have fun mixed with a healthy dose of  spontaneous terror and danger to keep it interesting.  

We're forming a committee to draft the blueprint and contingency plans for this most necessary decompression ritual.  There will be updates on this exciting project forthcoming. 

Thanks.

Office of The King
 

Freak of Nature: Part 2...

Pulled some TV money out of the ATM and cruised the lanai at Coffee Talk.  Looking for smokers to bum a smoke from.  One smoker, on his cell phone.  Turn.  Moke on the corner, furrowed brow, holding a Marlboro gangster style.  I offer a couple of pieces of White Rabbit candy for a cigarette.  Brow unfurrows and face brightens and he offers two cigarettes and declines the candy.  It's mango flavored, I said.  He smiled and declined again.

Went to sisters.  Lights on, computer glow through window, Jeep in the drive.  Knock Knock.  Tap Tap.  Knock Knock.  Went to get gas. Returned.  Knock Knock.  Tap Tap Tap Tap.  N/A.  Need food.  Drive down Keeaumoku.  Like Like Drive in.  Plug cell phone into jack in the planter outside.   Try sis again.  She's with a Texan she met on the internet.  They were having beers and playing adult games.  They were at a place called B&D's or something.  No...D&B's.  Yes.  They join me at the Like Like.  Now I'm meeting people through the internet and I'm not even looking. 

Then something happens.  Woah.  Crazy time thing.  I go into dream land.

I decide to stop at Anna Bannannas for a smoke under the auspice of going in for a drink.  I don't know anyone in the bar.  Before I can order, I am approached by what appears to be a large white male and he asks me if I smoke.  Before I can hesitate he asks me if I'm a cop.  I laughed and said no.  I asked if he was a cop.  He hesitated, then said "I asked you."  Oh yeah, thats right, cops can't solicit.  Do you smoke he asks.   I smoke I says.  Do you have a lighter? Yeah. let's go smoke, but first, can you get that flashlight for me?  points behind thebar.  His friends are franticly looking under the bar and under everybodies chair for something.  I ask the bartender for a double shot of Jack, a pack of cigarettes, and the flashlight.  I check my pockets.  No lighter.  In my pants in the truck.  Mr. X is mediating with the searchers and exhorting me to go smoke.  I'm waiting for my change.  Napkin on drink, cigarettes in pocket, we go.  He had the personality of someone on meth.  Amped.  I told him lighter was in truck.  He took it as a major setback.  I told him I'd be back in a minuite.  I walked.  As he was taking a volumnous piss beside a truck he yelled out behind me "One minuite!  Run!"  I waved at him.  unwraped pack, grabbed the BTU's from my BDU's, and sparked  up for the thirty yard walk back.  two drags.  Passing the ride he was leaking by, the lights flashed and I saw a large silouhete behind dark tint.  put the cigarette down, a distance away, and climbed in the big white truck.  He asked me where I was from. Palolo I said.  How long?  Five years.  I've been there twenty five.  Moved here when he was eleven.   started talking about how much water he drinks.  two gallons a day.  something to do with drug testing.  smokes herb once every eleven days.  mentioned something indecypherable about his cop buddies, or cops that he works with.  What do you do I asked.  You want to know what I do for a living?  The question resounded with the sound of the creaky hinges of Pandoras Box.  Coke style talk followed.  I was his priest.  I was his bartender.  I was his therapist.  He spoke fast.  a Detroit rap with the consonants shrivelled by the Hawai'ian Sun.  I cought what I could.  Some things he was very clear on.  His day job I never learned.  The occupation he seemed to be most proud of  was one he termed: Problem Solver.  I knew what he meant by the way that he said it.  The way we were parked, the light was in my eyes when I faced him, and he was a silouhette.  He told me to lock the door.  I did and noticed that the lock was a headless design that went flush with the pannel.  As he passed the burning roach,  he reiterated; I take care of peoples problems.  in case I didn't get the subtlty of his terms the first time.   first thought was;  have I been a problem to someone?  then;  will this door open if I need it to?  He shuts off the ignition.  tells me how he's been a scrapper.  a few quick tales of reductions he'd performed.  I uncross my arms.  He catches himself being revealing.  I'm like sodium pentathal to some people.  they just gush.  the less I ask, the more they reveal.  The cigarette burned down to the butt.  We re-enter the bar. the ice cubes in my back were far melting, whisky still there.  He rejoined his friends.  I thought about the whole truck scene then pushed it aside do draw out a formula. 

Write the Thing

Name the Names

Connect the Reference

Manufactured 44444Controversy 44444Web of

As a Statement

 

There was a nice diagram explaining everything as a basic concept.  So Mr.X  comes over and glances at the writing.  He wants to make sure that what is between us is between us.  I don't know nothing.  He keeps eyeing the napkin suspiciously.  I assure him that its an internet concept piece.  He flips the napkin over and tells me to draw another one, then says he's going to draw one, then calls his friend over and tells him to tell me the story.  His friend had lost a wallet, the thing they were looking for.  They retraced their  steps back to Magoo's and spyed it in the middle of the road.  A car hit it.  Then another one and the wallet flew open and his money went blowing.  But he grabbed it all.  We all bumped fists. 

 

 

Freak of Nature...

Small kine controversy.  Six months ago I found a dummy on the side of the road.  Home made, sturdy, about six feet tall.  He has no hands. PVC skeleton wrapped tight with padding, wrapped tighter with packing tape.  I think he was designed as a sparing partner.  Anyways, I leaned him up against the inside of the hibiscus archway, the portal to the "Office."  He's been scaring people ever since.  The rain got to him.  He started to sag.  I decided to retire him.  I needed two people to throw him in, so I just leaned him up against the roll-off dumpster parked temporarily by the drive.   Comments came flowing back to me.  It looks like he's shouldering the dumpster, keeping it from sliding down the hill.  He startled the people living up the drive, their headlights flashing across a straining figure in the night.  The realstate people found him very funny, which I found funny.  They stopped and commented on it through their window as I was working in the nursury yesterday.  It was the most genuinely congenial exchange I've had with Lucky and Marilyn in the four years that I've been working here.  They said they felt safer with that thing holding up the dumpster, ha ha.  They asked me if I made it.  No, I said.  I hadn't noticed the humor of the positioning until they brought it up.  They hear that I'm an artist.  I think they assumed it was some sort of art thing I was doing.  Later, Richy said that Stuarts wife was disturbed by it.  Richy found it obscured later.  He sat it back up. Stuart stopped today and talked to me through his window as I was working in the nursury.  He said that his wife was disturbed by the dummy and that he moved it.  Then he advised me to never get married.

The peace lillies are starting to droop a bit.  Everything else still looks good.  Not much water pressure in the nursury.  I need to hike up to the waterfall tomorrow to check the intake.

Recieved my backlogged AFTRA checks in the mail today, as I was driving down a pitcher of change to buy a sandwich and coffee.  Good timing.  Those twelve dollar checks add up after a few years. 

Recieved an e-mail from "a fan" yesterday.  Said that I didn't know who they were, but wanted to tell me that my name was on the UTL (unable to locate) list at AFTRA.  They gave me the website to check it out.  They then quoted all my inane lines from the show I was on.   They also made a subtle reference from some *unoffical bio (author unknown) of mine on a website called TVtome.  They also said that they enjoyed my blogs.  "Stalker" was my first thought.  Then I figured it might be a friend yoinking me.  I replied to the e-mail.  No reply back though.  A mystery.   

*Biographical Information

Birth Place: Earth
Cause of death: some say he is immortal...
Biography: Although much of the life of Dark Sevier remains a mystery to this day, he is one of the most celebrated actors of the 1990's. Whenever anyone reaches to grab a roll off the kitchen table, surely a picture of Dark is in their head. Whenever watching a volleyball game, one cannot forget the best net man of all time, nor can they forget his long pony tail when they think of "sly foxes". He was a lady's man, no doubt, and an athlete for the ages.

Jim Trip came across this site with the bio and fed the insinuation that I was dead on a thread.  He was excited for me, and seemingly a little envious.  "How did you get a rumor started that you were dead?"  I didn't do it I said.  I haven't seen any evidence that the rumor is true.  But it might be.  I might have died in a car wreck in Beverly Hills years ago.  It's possible that I was under the influence of some powerful mind altering drug at the time, and didn't realize that I died (I'd hate to kill the rumor and end the enigma for the four people that followed my acting career.)  Another mystery.

One sunny day...

The plants are radiating.  Red green purple.  Little rain in two weeks, but the plants are still riding on the wet June.  Another day or two of the clear skys and the hot sun, and their erect postures will falter a bit.  Now they are thriving in peak form.  It has been a kind summer. 

Went to sleep at 7:00 last night.  Long day pulling weeds, fingers sore, a couple of nics and a burn from the mosquito fire.  Was going to nap, so I left the light on, upstairs and down.  Woke up periodically and wondered what time it was, decided not to check.  Woke up at 3:00.  I knew because that is the quietest time of the day; the birds start at 4:00.  I thought about getting up and writing, then decided to sleep just a little longer.  Then the birds started and I sank into a deep sleep.  I assume this because I don't remember them.  I have a lot of flying dreams.   I wonder how much of that is influenced by this chorus of birds that seem to pull the sun over their mountain with the sincerity of their exhotations.  I must admit that I only wondered about said quantity for the sake of this paragraph. 

I'm King of Egg Sandwiches too.  Undisputed.

I'm delaying work 'til evening.   It'll be work if I go now.  A creative act if I go later. 

I know it's unfashionable to be a king these days.  The image of the grimacing patriarch, the abuse of power associated with monarchy, the idea of one ruling over the many.   I like to think of it as retro. 

As far as I know, no one has claimed the title of King of the World.  There have been kings of nations, a King of Kings, a King of Pop, and a King of Rock and Roll.  LA has a King of Beepers and a King of Matresses.   No King of the World.  The USA has a President that likes to act like King of the World, but he's too chicken shit to claim it.  If he would claim it, then all his actions would be justified, but as it is, he's over stepping the bounds of the role he has claimed. 

So, when the actual construction of the space station commences, I'll entertain debates about wheather or not I'm over stepping (the concept of a *King of Everything is in R&D right now, but it's slow moving.  We're getting all caught up in that sense-of-scale thing).

So, anyway, yep, I'm King.  But I'm not like the Old Kings, I'm an honest King.  I'm not the King for my sake, I do it for you.   I am but the figurehead for the will of the Humans, see. 

See, I'm lazy too.  I don't want to go to work, really.  I like to do things, with people, that are beneficial for the community of humans and the world community, but I don't want to work if it means some repetitive action that yields no conscious relevance to myself and/or the world. 
I don't want to go to work, I'd rather go to a meaningful endeavor and perform work.   There is a difference (unless your into Zen). 
  
  
  
  *[Officially I have no designs on a higher office, I have my work on Earth to occupy my full attention].

 

 

 

 

For those of you that didn't know...
 
Stating that I am King of the Blogs threw some people for a loop, and I apologize.  People wondered; "How can Dark be King of the Blogs, and King of the World?"
 
Well, it's simple really.  I just am. 
 
It was revealed to me, that I am King of the World, a few months ago.  I haven't made a big deal about it.  I still work as a tree farmer, act like an idiot when I talk to pretty women , and neglect to renew the tags on my truck.  Not much has changed, really.  I have yet to announce my World Soverignty to the ostensible world leaders.  I've been buisy with other stuff.  I have yet to assemble my staff and pr team (I am taking aplications:  post submissions on the comment section below).  I decided to not do the big branding campaign.  I figure, the fact that I rule will get around eventually.  I'm easing my way in.  People freak out if you just start running around changing things wily nily.   Plus, there is the challenge of not having any money.    But who needs money when your ruling a world?  I have complete faith in the integrity of my self induced psychoses.  I just have to get ot of my own way, really.
 
This King of the Blogs thing is just a hoby. 
 
Shawzy just came by and left.  Wanted an I Ching reading.   She recieved hexagram 30, Fire under Fire (I conducted four readings in the past two days on four different people.  Each recieved 30 in their reading editors note). 
 
Wanted to look up a word in the Big Red Dictionary:  Empathy.  She didn't find it in her dictionary.  I didn't find it in the BRD.  I looked it up in my newest dictionary, and it was there.  Is empathy a new word?  If not a new concept, then it has, at least, been obscure in our vocabulary (a generic, generalized, presumptive our). 
 
Photographed each other.  Sat in silence.  Listened to Thelonius Monk.  Smoked;  it curbed the tension from not having a cigarette for the past eight hours.  She asked me if I were free.  I said yes, to a degree.  Arbitrary and fantastic.  We talk of empathy and we talk of understanding.  We talk of dread, and of murder.  The space station was touched upon.  Over tea.   Her: chamomile.  Me: black and green.
 
(:={+}=:) {:={+}=:) (:={+}=:) * (:={+}=:) * (:={+}=:) (:={+}=:) (:={+}=:) 
 

Vicissitude...
 
Haven't been writing.  Been stewing.  Soaking in my own juices.  Close to drowning now. 
 
I don't know if any of that is true.  I just start writing, a premise presents itself, and I start chasing it, like a greyhound after a mechanical bunny.   I put things in words and they seem, somehow, true.  I've known the pros and cons of this for sometime, but I forget them.  The pressure of defining my life in words asphyxiates some mind function that has to do with learning...
 
Maybe.  Maybe that is all bullshit too.  I'm restless in a wreckless way that feels very familiar.  I don't know if I'm very good at this human being gig. 
 
I've developed skills, talents.  I've exercised powers.  I gave up the knowledge of good and evil, exchanged it for discernment.  I've learned to accept pain as a release from suffering.  I know better than to sacrifice being on the altar of strife.  I've worked out the question of free will to a satisfactory degree.  I do not fear death.  I've found a few functions to serve as a human in this time and place.  I don't care that I'm losing my hair.  I can cause orgasm to happen for women.  I do not serve at the will of people, governments, or organizations that I do not wholeheartedly endorse.  I'm self sustaining, to a large degree.  I feed a very smelly dog.  And other stuff. 
 
And I'm still dissatisfied.  I can carry the visage of balance and still not feel it, be surrounded by love and not know it.  
 
The cult of psychology could spend endless hours diagnosing and labeling me, and still not hit the mark, still not come any closer to an understanding, at least not one that would be helpful.   
 
An assumption.  An illusion.  A concept.  A perspective.  Had them and lost them and found them again.  Know I'm beyond them.  Have a hard time with that experience.   
 
Want to rage like a dragon on fire, filling the sky with flames of  redemption, searing the web of debilitating mind dis-ease, reducing it to a fertile ash that encourages the growth of something more fruitful. 
 
Or maybe I'm just craving a cigarette.  Like a hypocrite, I want to see the perceptions of the people healed of their illusions, but I do not heal my own, for I dread the harshness of the contrast.

Hello.  I am an outsider in the blog culture... 
 
Or is it a cult?  Both I'm sure. 
 
I used to think that I was very interesting, and that everyone on the planet would want to know what was going on in my life if they had the opportunity to find out.  I think I gleaned this notion from friends and neighbors when I lived in Hollywood.  They didn't necesessarily tell me I was all that interesting, or ask what was going on in my life, but they thought that they were very interesting.  I picked it up like a virus.  A narcissistic pandemic. 
 
So, I left the personality glut for a more organic scene.  So that I could dominate it.  I want to be the blog king.  No, I will be the Blog King.  No, scratch all that, I am the Blog King, and as soon as the world recognizes this, the better off we will all be. 
 
See, I have a plan.  It's a conspiracy of sorts.  It's kind of like a multi-level marketing of the soul, meets benevolent solipsism.  Yeah.   I've been working on it for some time now.  I have it worked out in my head.  Most of it is in my head.  It's been leaking a lot lately, my head.  I don't mind.  The stuff needs to get out there.  My life is full of stuff about YOU and the world, and how we can all deal with it equitably.  Hardly any room left for me in my own life.  So I'm going to blog it out, for you, for the animals, for the plants, and most importantly, me. 

Where to start...

Always the question.

I have a new weed whacker. Very excited about this. The farm was in bad need of being tamed. Still is, but I've cut a few trails through at least. I'm going to have a ton of green waste to compost when I'm through. Maybe two.

I'm putting my trip journal on another blog. It'll be an ongoing project. Or not. So much happened today, how do I go back to yesterday?

One of my earliest lessons in the psychedelic realm showed me the folly of trying to get a grip on what happened at the expense of present happening. I was crouched down in an alley way in Boulder Colorado. I had separated myself from the group I was tripping with. This was my first experience of flying solo. Without the group to provide a consensus experience, I slid deep into fear and paranoia. My consciousness had exploded far beyond my body capsule, and now I was acutely aware of the living intelligences around me, the tree, the bug, the raccoon peeking out from the storm drain, the lady walking the dog, the dog, the fog and the moon. I felt the awareness was two way, they were aware of me also. I felt like a crab out of its shell, naked awareness, vulnerable perceptions, exposed. Did they know? Did they know I was tripping? That I was slipping into their world and they into mine? I recognized my relations, with all. And then the fall from this grace. I was doing something illegal, walking down the street gawking at the beauty of everything, wondering how I had missed it before. I was tripping, and obviously so. I could get arrested for disobeying the law. The absurdity of this was missed as I began to fear punishment. My fear was then projected onto everything. The man on the porch could call the police. The lady and the dog: maybe they were the police. I was frightening myself with implications, and spooking the people I passed on the street with my wide eyed terror. They looked at me funny, and my terror increased. My fears were confirmed as random people scrutinized this odd gawker hyper aware, ensnared with his own apprehension. I ducked into an alley way, eminent doom riding me, whipping me into a brisk walk, eyes darting wildly. Some guy stopped what he was doing, he froze with a trash bag in his fist to look at this vision of mania walking overly nonchalant. I'd been seen, it was only a matter of time before the cops came and threw me in the rubber room, like they'd done to my friend the week before. Granted he was running around in the snow buck naked at 10:00am, but I couldn't take a chance. So I hid. I crouched in a doorway behind some store and covered my face like an ostrich. The trip hopped the rails and now had full rein in my reeling imagination. I began to tremble and shake, terrorized by my asumptions. Then, my emotions began to roll, or spin like a karma wheel. Fear turned primal, and anger exploded into rage and then profound sadness enveloped me before I blissed out, elated, ecstatic. I don't think I had ever been so happy. With my eyes closed tight, the inner world danced like never before. Then I began a slow spiral decent into my memories. Every formitive moment of my life appeared for me to see, all the junctures that made me me were revealed with sublime objectivity. I remembered things I didn't know that I'd forgot. Then the revelation began to rush, and I was seeing my life flash before me, rapidly. I was remembering everything, but the images and sensations were flying by faster than I could grasp them. So, I was remembering then forgetting just as fast. I tried to hang on to key moments, which created a great resistance to the process at hand, and so I began to suffer again. Like gold falling from the heaveans, through my fingers, and into a void below. It was maddening. I resisted the careening of my mind into the primal with all my might, and then there was a perceptual pop. Next I was seeing, what I assumed was, the chemical processes of my brain in this state. The images were abstract, globules and strands, yet they seemed to corelate to the literal images I had poped out of. The same process was happening, just in a different form. I marveled, then, again began to try to isolate specifics at the cost of the vision. It poped again. This time I felt I had landed on a precipice on the edge of life, the border between the known, and the deep black mystery. I frightened me. I was then compelled to open my eyes. I felt that if I didn't I would cease to exist. I was back in the alley. I was mute. I couldn't form words. I somehow made it to a friends house. It was like I floated there, or a breeze carried me to the door. No one was home. I entered and sat on the couch. I tried to write, to do something to bring me back into cognition of the life I had known before. I couldn't draw simple shapes, much less any words, or my own name. I sat back on a couch and watched a pair of bluejeans on a hanger. It was by a window, swinging in the breeze. I was like a baby in a crib, staring at a mobile, fascinated. I didn't understand how it could be moving. Then my friends came in. One guy, Bill Sharpe, a tripper from England, seemed to recognise the place I was in and sat down beside me. He coached me back gently without calling attention to my state. My friends reminded me who I was by interacting with me like they normally did. I began to respond to appropriate ques. Within a half hour I was talking and moving about again. Bill wore a knowing grin through the whole thing, a casual smile that told me everything was ok. I believed him. And so it was.

Refrigerator died while I was gone...

Sick. Cough, throat thing, nose, hacking stuff.

Would like to write the kind of poetry that spreads enthusiasm across continents like a flu virus. Would like to define the times in rhymes sublime so slick that the critics send me fan mail. Would like to be a poet on par with rock stars and drink in bars with super models that are misunderstood and genius ready. Would like to make sex a priority in my life again, in a sustainable fashion without losing the terror.

Shit. I think Alka-Seltzer is some kind of truth serum. Maybe it is the combo of it and the pepperincinis. I don't know.

Saw Microscopic Syllables perform at Indigo's last night. Inspired by this. Want to be a rock star again. To hit the groove that makes us move in unison. Wouldn't that be fun?

I think there is jello in my lungs. When I take a deep breath something jiggles in my lungs, makes me cough, but not enough to hack it up. Afflicted but not suffering.

Taking a bong hit under these respiratory conditions causes very painful coughing jags. FYI.

"What is important right now?" Griz asked that question pointedly the night before he split for Brazil. Periodically, that line jumps out and grand stands in the front of my consciousness. What is important right now?

It is important for me to not cough for some time, so that the mental images, of me killing myself in the throes of a jag, recede.

Ok, so maybe I am suffering a bit.

I resent having to maintain myself.

I like to drink in a manner that can't be done with packaged drinks and coffee house brews. Appreciation of the homemade tea, in all its originality: ginger, passion fruit and honey. Hibiscus flowers and lemon. Green and black for a little jack in the attention. It feels gratifying to taste something that I have mixed, or has been made by another with intention. But my addictions keep me busy with the packages, coffee and nicotine, an then the action of smoking as a gratification in itself. Caffeine as my woobie, my comfort food pacifier. Warm, sweet,and steady, almost everyday.

I wonder what I would feel like if I finally stopped jacking my system with nuero chemicals and stimulants, and depressants, and emotional joy rides.

And the wondering wanes...

Returned to the rock...

I'm back. Three weeks of adventure, travel, and more. So much more. I will be posting nightly for a while till I throw down a respectable telling of the journey to the mainland. I'm curious to see what it was all about.

Stay tuned...

Honesty and objectivity...

Ok. Where do I start? The entry I did last night, the one below this one, was seriously truncated by technical difficulties. I'm making an effort here to embrace the people and land that I was born into. Effort. I would like to connect, really.


Had a nice talk with mom today. Yes, she has a bumper sticker on her cadillac that says "WE LUV YA DUBYA!", and she says that Kerry is evil, and Reagan her favorite Presedent. Fashion. A style of mental attire. I can look beyond it. She's a good woman, loving, wants for her famaily what most everybody wants: health, happyness, success. Our ideas of what those things mean, and what it takes to manifest them, are disparate.

My dad is running for State Rep. Wears the name "conservative" like a freshman pledge wears his greek letters. I went to see him speak at a monthly meeting of the Great Lakes chapter of ABATE (Assosiation of Bikers Aimed Toward Education).

I went with him and sister Kim, We walked across an alley way, through the bay of a muffler shop. In the back door of Joey's cycle shop. Bikers. Drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, socializing around lifts with hogs in various states of repair. My dad is wearing a light blue shortsleeve taylored oxford, dark slacks and shiny shoes (unbuttoned at the collar, casual). Most of the members were flying their colors. It was a whole thing, minuites from the last meeting were read off, upcoming funraisers and charity work, announcements, etc. A council of five sat on stools in the retail section of the shop behind a long bar that separates the members and the guests seated in folding chairs in the repair shop. In the room was a Sherrif, a soon to be elected Court Clerk, The Democratic opponent to my dads bid for office, a bank employee, a cattle rancher, A web designer. At least one convicted fellon, etc. Before the meeting, I went through the front door, through the Highway 69 Diner, and out front, smoking a rollie in a lot full of Harley Davidsons, looking at the neon lit Indian Smoke Shop, a drive through tobacco store across the Highway. I think, "I should write this down." So I do.

I have to give my dad credit. A conservative Republican doesn't get up in front of a room full of democrat bikers to give a stump speach unless he has grande cajones.

I cant say that hanging out with my family is a relaxing time, nor a time of deep connection. But it is damned interesting, no doubt. (to be continued...)

I am a creator...

I'm "creating" another post for this blog, for you. Create a more appropriate word than write.

I'm back in the flatlands, with the flatlanders.

To:blogger@trakken.com

Help me. Was writing. Then got some internal error scenario. Need to write. I'm on the road and I need to write. Especially now that I have arrived at my folks house. Help me, please.

The error occured @ 12:20am ish. Central Standard. Oklahoma. I'm in Oklahoma. I was in Honolulu, but now I'm in Oh-klahoma, and I don't want to have to transgripe from a notebook later. I have the fans of my blog to consider here (both of them).

Please help...
Dark Sevier @
www.undeadwords.blogspot.com<

Damn it. Just created a nice cliffs notes on my journey from Honolulu to here, then some internal error at Blogger zapped it. ...Supposedly.

I'll have to hit it again tomorrow.

Computer was Zapped...

So, is it a common notion that Microsoft and Norton are paying hackers to screw with the machines so that their programmers have job security, and the national economy gets periodic tech spikes? Or am I paranoid? Or both?

Sister uploads a Microsoft update and moments latter my machine has the sasser virus. What the hell do I have Norton for? Protection racket in its most recent incarnation? I wasn't through ranting about the auto insurance companies in cahoots with the state legislators using those well meaning cops as their enforcers.

While I'm banging this drum, let's take it a step farther back...

I was born on this planet here, and I've been told since as far back as I can remember that I have to pay some damned land lord to get in out of the rain, which means spending most my month engaged in activities of some labor or another just to keep out of jail. or off the street. Which is looking better and better, only because I live in non threatening weather.

I know at least a dozen people living commando. They are not "street people" as the stereotype goes. They live in the forests in tents, or caves, working two or three days a week to cover necessities. The rest of the time they are playing music, or listening to the wind, or visiting with friends. Living, in other words, not just surviving.

How long are the humans going to put up with this land based power scam? Some old nobody once said, "people acting 'sanely' has brought the world to this sorry state of affairs. Acting 'insane' may now be our only salvation."

When I was working in La La Land, I actually had a hope for The Media to enable people to wake up to the Con. But instead of Electronic Acid, we have Techno Heroin. We put up with this new and improved age old scam because we're addicted to the abuse. "Please tell me how far off the mark I am from the clothes and the tan that will make me a man..."

I went to Hollywood because I wanted to have my finest attributes exploited into fame and fortune so that I could maximize the primal urge to spread my superior seed into as many groupies as possible. A flashy ride, a bitchin' pad, good bad food, and a world view that confirmed my most narcissistic fantasy. I went to LA to be a jester and ended up a fool.

The basic urge to dominate the gene pool was fun-house-mirrored into submission at the feet of the most degenerate of the race.

But I know my place. As did the gate keepers, unconsciously.

If the vital minds of the time were allowed to find their place in the race of brand name recognition, the game would be over and the party would begin. And the life outside illusion would be a hard to take contusion for the overblown egos of the status quo.

The real work of living, of giving, of sharing ourselves with each other honestly has been eclipsed by this profanity.

Aint it fun? I like it. But I don't love it. And I was meant to love and be loved. Damn this glove of trendy interaction that insulates us from each other. We're all spies, undercover, undermining each other with our self definitions as "upper middle class" and "Catholics" doing mass and "left and right wing" fans rooting for their victory over the others. Who will be the heart that beats back this mental virus of separation? Who will be the nerves that send a signal to the muscles that we're not getting off the ground until we get our head together?

"They" are not guilty of reducing this amazing species to material servitude. We are. All of us. All of us that buy it, consume it, and shit it out into the mouths of the next generation, again.

So, I'm venting. Turning this plastic rubbish of inequity into poetry so that I can get a grip on it. This is the shit, the fertile compost that fosters the growth of something far more desirable in this garden we live in. Nothing gets wasted here.

Have no dread about what may be if you can see that it is you. Say the end is near and fear will be the harvest that you reap. Sleep in fitful nighmares that you are "their" victim, or burn the midnight oil creating a viable option. Or don't. It's a free world.

Full Moon this eve...

Wa'ahila ridge. Liberated space, kind of. Been going to most of the full moon gatherings there since they started, well over a year ago. Been dealing with the Honolulu police almost every time they showed up. I must say that the police here, that I've encountered, are far more tolerant than any others that I've encountered elsewhere. In LA we would have been hog tied with zip strips and dragged out face down.

The people at the gathering more peaceful that most disobedient civilians. There always seems to be some one who wants to vent at the cops: "C'mon man" that kind of thing. Generally, we liberate the ridge for the full moon until the Law enforcement come to do their duty on us. They don't bust anyone, we don't give them a hard time. Game over. 'Til next month.

We might be able to keep this up indefinitely if the police would learn to enjoy the opportunity to get paid to take a moonlight stroll through the towering ironwood pines. Their shoes aren't made for that kind of thing though. So, they're usually irked at having to respond to the monthly "noise" complaint. Manoa Valley hears the drums and whoops.

The cops admittedly don't want to do the paperwork involved in a bust. Good for us. The enforcers of the law draw the short straw, and still remain, relatively, cool. As we clean up the party favors: hammocks, kava bowls, and wine bottles, we small talk the cops as we put out the coles from the fire. We don't resist, they don't have to insist. I see a bottle of wine being poured onto the coles and leap to grab it. It was a bottle of Ravenswood. I hold onto it and step on the bed with my slippers instead.

On Joels request, I escort Aunt B out of the park. Her Djimbe drum under one of my arms, she holding onto my other, each of us with a bottle of wine in our hands, stubbing our toes on the trail out. The wind moaned in the tops of the trees howling at the moon in their own way.

Before the gathering I facilitated another edition of The Mean Time at Studio 1. I've been lax in promoting the event, so the turnout was small. The special guests slated for the event, pro-Palestinian Christians, didn't show.

I told John that I was ready to give it up, being that the joint loses money on it every month. He and Jack agreed that it was worth keeping on. This is amazing to me. A space that can hold five hundred people hosting a dozen or so to show and break it down for each other. Purposeful impersonal conflict. Love it. A place to challenge and be challenged by others ,where no one walks away with their feelings hurt. Phenomenal.

Could not make this stuff up if I tried.

Yawning. Stoned. Jonesing for a smoke...

I smoked cigarettes today. I decided I would let myself smoke the rest of my pouch and then quit. So I did, mostly. Ran out of papers. Little snipes of cigarettes ring the ceramic ashtray, like the butts of sticks left around the perimeter of the fire, after it has died.

Shawzy just called me to go to awa with her. I have never refused a request from Shawzy, how could anyone? I smoked a fat bowl with Louie in a parking lot after leaving Magoos with a double shot of Jack in my blood. I told her I wanted to go, but would probably vomit if I drank awa right now.

I was supposed to go to sisters and check out her new pad, but the smoke stirred the mix in my head and chuncks began to surface from the mental mire, surfacing, stewed. Tender. Easy to digest.

Like a crocodile I leap from just beneath the surface and snatch a moment from the day, drag it down into the depths and throw a log over it. It will sit and tenderize while I bask in the sun. I'll come back for that later.

But I had the drive home so, I forgot it all. Happens. Still tenderizing maybe. I don't remember what log I put it under...

Oh, wait, here's something...

Kissing. It happens a lot here, in the world I live in. Hugs and kisses are regular here. If I leave my house I'll probably hug and/or kiss someone before I make it back. Lucky to get a stiff handshake where I came from.

Different kinds of kisses come to mind. The how-are-you peck on the cheek, the I know you well enough to not purse my lips so much so you feel the tenderness of my lips kiss. The Surprise right on the lips kiss. Levels of intimacy socially acceptable in the circles I find myself. Same with hugs. Arms superficially embracing: pat pat hug. The longer, excuse to touch the opposite sex hug. The our hearts are beating as one full chest press.

My personal space parameters have mutated since I've been here. If I moved back to the mainland I'd have to get married, or, at least lock down another long term share the same dwelling kind of scenarios. I would perish without the regular contact with other humans (or mentally herniate for spending too much time with one in particular). It was always sexual before. Our cultural polarization makes human contact illicit, or certified (with a license and all). Crazy. It's crazy.

I'm not as free and open as those around me here. I have mutated a bit, but still insulated more than need be. Lack of mindful presence. Each hug and kiss, as many as there are here, could be a full experience, if I were to allow that to be so.

Obvious oral fixation...

Writing on the flip side...

It's 6:13am. It stopped raining. The tin roof records the afterthoughts of the nights rain in drops jarred loose from the flora fawning over the shack.

Went for a hike yesterday. Was going to hike up to Kaau crater with sister, but the mud from a weekend of intermittent showers added an additional challenge that made the hike something other than leisurely. We took the low trail and cut down to Wiaomao stream, slip and sliding down. Rock hopped down the stream, collecting iliili stones (roundie roundie rocks).

Walked down Waiamao road to 10th, then back up La'i. Home again home again. Sister left to eat and recover, I made dinner from whatever I could put together: refried beans, onions, potatoes and cheese.

Fell asleep at sunset. Left the lights on so I would get up when I woke up. Woke up at 1am. Went back to sleep. Woke up at 4am. Went back. Woke up at 6am, pulled myself out from under the mosquito veil, stumbled around the place. Fed the cats after barking at them for not getting out of my way fast enough. Reheated dinner, ate it for breakfast. Looked for a cigarette. Half smoked rollies, jungle damp. Nicotine the reason for being sluggish and grouchy. The place is a mess. Ready to end the relapse.

With the web as my witness, I vow to drop the nasty habit again. Planning to be extra irritated for a week or so, coughing up the toxins, displacing the habit, looking for another...

Weather permitting, I'm loading a 40ft container with trees to be shipped to Big Island today and tomorrow.

Another Mean Time at Studio 1 Wednesday. Special guest this month: Friends of Sabiel. I think this is a group of Palestinian Christians. We'll see.

Mean Time on Wednesday, Clean up my life Thursday and Friday, hop a plane on Monday. That's the plan: Trip to LA, Arizona, Oklahoma, Kansas, back to LA, then home again.

Raining again.

Going to the bank to open an account for the new business name: Monkey Works Hawai'i.